


The Tent Next Door

by froggy (therealfroggy)



Series: Striptease II [3]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealfroggy/pseuds/froggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What <em>were</em> those mysterious sounds Lincoln, LJ and Michael heard on the first night of LJ's visit?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tent Next Door

“John,” T-Bag whispered.

“Hm?”

“Are you tryin' to tell me somethin'?”

Abruzzi sighed. He had firmly resisted the other man's tugs on his sleeping bag for the past two minutes.

“I'm not about to fuck you six feet away from a sleeping fifteen year-old, Theodore. Besides, it's not even been six hours; you're a God damn nymphomaniac!”

“Who said anythin' 'bout fuckin' me? Just let go of the sleepin' bag, will ya?”

As soon as Abruzzi did let go, T-Bag rolled over until he was on top of the other man (at least as far as the size of the tent allowed), and started getting rid of layers between them. As soon as there was just skin, he started backing away from Abruzzi's face.

The mobster drew in a sharp breath as T-Bag's mouth took him all in, hellfire hot and eager. Abruzzi knew the other man took almost as much pleasure in satisfying him as he did in being satisfied himself; T-Bag was addicted to the power trip of getting someone off.

T-Bag was the first person who had made John Abruzzi want that power trip.

With his wife, it was always love. He still loved her; he told himself every night. With T-Bag, it was lust, need... and weakness. And as he lay on his back in a tent, his hands fisted in a murderer's hair, the love was forgotten in the heat of a lethal mouth.

T-Bag pulled back without finishing Abruzzi off, looking up at his face. No one ever saw him like this, no one ever saw him like T-Bag did; desperately needing something. Weak. Smirking in victory, T-Bag crawled forwards until he was lying side by side with the mobster. He licked once, slowly, along the other man's throat, tasting the musky scent that was John Abruzzi.

“Y'know, _I_ never fucked _you_ before, John,” T-Bag whispered, his agile tongue playing with Abruzzi's earlobe. “Too bad; I don't think anyone ever fucked you.” Pushing slowly against the other man, he guided him to roll onto his side. “But there's a first for everythin', ain't there?”

John Abruzzi was pride, power, authority. But his whole being gave way, surrendered; because he needed the man now stroking him slowly; he needed him and everything he had to offer.

“I'll be doin' the takin' tonight,” T-Bag breathed in his ear and gripped his hip. Abruzzi closed his eyes, willing away words like _weak_ and _bitch_ and _love_ , because the tent was filled with a sinful haze of lust and heat and T-Bag was so hard against him, his left hand an iron claw on Abruzzi's skin.

As T-Bag slowly slid inside him, Abruzzi bit the edge of his sleeping bag to stifle a moan. He wasn't even aware that his nails were screeching along the tent wall, his hand flailing for something to hold onto. Fuck, that hurt. Stretching, filling, pressing; and then a strangled whimper and everything stopped.

“Shh, we don't wanna disturb the happy family reunion, now do we?”

T-Bag was hissing, or shouting, or just whispering; Abruzzi couldn't tell and all he heard was the rush of blood and heat through his own body. None of them moved; just fluttering pulses and burning skin and _alive_. Abruzzi didn't know what to do; it hurt and yet his whole being was on fire in pleasure.

“Move,” he choked out. “Move, damn it!”

T-Bag nipped at Abruzzi's shoulder and pulled back a little before thrusting slowly. Abruzzi couldn't breathe; the pain was ecstasy and he wanted more, wanted all of it. His hips bucked involuntarily and T-Bag thrust harder.

“Oh fuck!” T-Bag moaned loudly, feeling Abruzzi clench around him. Someone was shouting at him to shut up but he didn't care; the walls of the man beside him were crumbling into submission with each thrust and the tight heat was so much more intense than any young, crying victim had ever been.

Abruzzi wanted more; harder, faster, painful and searingly hot. His jaw clenched with the effort of not begging. He revelled in each fragment of sensation and let his body accept each intrusion, wordlessly demanding more.

When T-Bag made him turn his head to kiss him, he allowed the murderer to grip his cock with one hand and within seconds he was coming, tightening around the other man and groaning loudly through the haze.

“Shit!” It was a whimper; T-Bag's whimper. “Relax, come on now, don't... Oh Jesus,” when Abruzzi tightened around him once more, this time deliberately. And then T-Bag was coming too, pumping inside Abruzzi and hissing his name with broken sobs. There was heat and sticky wetness and panting breaths, and Abruzzi's hand finally found purchase. Fingers entwined and the mobster didn't even care that he was clutching T-Bag's hand; he needed it.

“John,” T-Bag whispered, still breathing heavily. Nothing; no declaration, no joke, no request. Just a whispered name. John Abruzzi didn't reply, either. He just let go of the other's hand, very slowly.

Understanding. Lust, need, weakness and understanding. That was it, really; that was what was between them. And a comfortable silence.

“I told ya, no one would be fuckin' me.” Quiet laughter.

Lust, need, weakness, understanding... and a whole lot of irony of fate.


End file.
